


Mommy Has A Knife

by PepperedCat



Category: Suicide Boy - ParkGee (Webcomic), 地縛少年花子くん | Jibaku Shounen Hanako-kun | Toilet-bound Hanako-kun (Manga)
Genre: Age Difference, Age Play, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Crying, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fear, Forced Consent, Knifeplay, Knives, Mommy Kink, Mother-Son Relationship, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Reader-Insert, Shotacon, Stabbing, Unhealthy Relationships, VERY VERY messed up love, Yandere, Yandere Reader, because he wants her comfort after, he knows he can't escape so he lets it happen, hurt and some comfort?, in the end she loves him to pieces it's fiiine, stockholm syndrome-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28724802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperedCat/pseuds/PepperedCat
Summary: Reader/Character insert. This fic is vague as to who it is due to me having multiple characters in mind when writing it, so I apologize and pray that the applicable fandoms and character tags used appreciate it despite me not having explicitly used said character names within the fic. Character is referred to as "He/him/his". Non-intercourse, kink-based erotica.He has a passionate, psychologically unstable motherly figure of a lover who has broken him down into a vicious cycle of hurt/comfort. Mommy can't seem to stop hurting him just so that she can kiss the boo-boos better and see even the most pitiful parts of him that she so loves, and this time she's taken a bread carving knife to his thigh and followed up with her fingers just to see his cute, tear-moistened face and let him know she loves him.
Relationships: Hanako | Yugi Amane & Reader, Hanako | Yugi Amane/Reader, Lee Hooni/Reader
Kudos: 13





	Mommy Has A Knife

There is nothing better than the pulse of a heartbeat against your fingertips. Your fingertips, as swollen as your bones, and your marrow, and your veins, and even underneath the nails of your toes, which are numb and lacking in feeling right now due to sheer, uproarous excitement. Swollen much like the fragile, thread-like fibers that make up a lover, and the concepts large for them like your ego in the sense that they will never fully recover from this. 

There is something oh so lovely about the effort-laden mewl that barely makes its way into their throat, let alone their mouth even with a gust of breath to force it as you push in to this newly uncovered orifice with no sense of hesitance. There's no need to be, with the way that the flesh sucks you in in the same way that any eager, empty hole would. The strong, meaty flesh of his thigh, much like a horse's delicate but muscled body, flexes against your ministrations as if begging. He was young, and he was spry, and, _surely_ , he must know what this does to you with the way the smooth, parted skin and lengths of stranded, textured insides squeeze so tightly around your thumb like a tender, virginal Christian school girl who's figuring out how her fingers work for the first time. _Of course he knew._

He knew that the tremble of his sweaty, spittle-laden lips that he bit with each little baby step of a push would just get them all the more red and swollen to kiss at and suck him further into your embrace the more he tried to cope. Your warm, loving embrace that he so craved despite the searing, itchy sort of feeling radiating out from his thigh and making its way to each and every extremity with ease. Even though he could feel the burn in his eyelashes and teeth one by one. Individually. 

It was oh so worth it just to feel the soft, long fingers cupping his cheek, still adorned with baby chub at his young age _(He swore it would be gone by the end of the year)_ , offering what felt like icicles affixed in a bunch compared to the steadily increasing burn that forced yet another whimper and set of contractions from him. From his lithe, lanky little body that you knew in that very moment was yours for the taking. Yours to control, yours to please, and, most importantly, yours to destroy simply because you loved him. He was, for all intents and purposes, yours. Your child. And he knew his place, which was why he only squirmed in the seat you had put him, and dared not to move the leg you had laid out flat to work on.

Despite the puddle of blood continuing to amass underneath him, soaking into his shorts. The kind of shorts that only little boys got away with for fear of scandal or a stray sign of pubertal growth making itself known with far too much ease. But he was not _that_ little. And yet, here he sat in a puddle of red that the fabric mopped up thirstily like for a little boy who had peed himself. Because he knew there was no telling you 'No'. Mommy did not like 'No'. Mommy loved her little boy in the same sense that she loved Daddy once upon a time, if there even had been one - He doesn't remember. He can't think straight. All he knows is that Mommy's soft, tender thumbs are grazing over him in very different, very confusing ways right now that make him feel warm, and tingly, and afraid, and like he wants to die right now. He wishes that she would take the hand on his cheek and gently run it nails-first into his hair to play with it like she used to when he was younger, rather than put that much effort into affixing the pad of her other thumb directly to the bottom of his new two and a half inch hole.

A breath barely makes it into his lungs via the virtue of his sheer luck and charisma before it tumbles back out as a raw sob that sounds like thin, rusty metal scraping together. "Mommy, it hurts," he heaves, coughing on phlegm from the thick wads of salty tears and snot trailing down his face in a steady stream, and gags on it for a moment as he tries to be a big boy and find his words for Mama. You don't care about the fluids. You'll touch any part of him even if it's forcefully ejected from his body. He is your son, and this is an undeniable fact. You love each other.

" _Mom_ ," is all he manages this time, somehow more pitifully and more quietly, to which you hush the poor creature and lean in to plant a shockingly chaste kiss atop his forehead, where his hair has clung due to sweat and dried blood you had wiped there earlier. This is your son. Of course he knows you love him just from that alone. Of course you also know that he knows that, watching his entire body still for a moment as he sucks some of the drool and snot back up and looks to you with furrowed brows that beg you for another thrust. You oblige your baby boy with gratitude. You know he would never directly ask because he hates every second of this. But he loves Mommy, and this is how Mommy is, so of course it's what's right in both of your eyes.

So you wriggle your thumb with everything you've got, pressing until your bones and joints begin to ache from the stress of them being pushed backwards. And you break ground, quite literally. You feel his warm insides clench up around you as your baby makes a sound between a currently mating cat in heat and nails against a chalkboard. It begins as a guttural, back-of-the-throat scrape that sounds like his vocal chords are made out of granite before his voice cracks. Oh how tender are boys during puberty, you think to yourself, as the heat of his fluids bubble up against your thumb and onto the heel of your palm, sinew and tendons crackling audibly as you force yourself deeper inside of him. Nothing else has the ability to warm you to your core like the way his voice settles back down into a shrill shriek that was thinner than the chilly Autumn air. The way he parts like the red sea to invite you inside leaves you just as breathless as him as his dizzied little head spins from another kiss being the last sensation that pushes him over the brink.

Everything has stopped for now and is lost to the darkness.

But Mommy will be there when he inevitably wakes up, and she will have brought her baby lots of rubbing alcohol and little teddybear band-aids and gauze and kisses to make him feel all better. Maybe Mommy will even let him cry into her bosom and suckle just like when he was a baby again just like last time.

...Of course she will, and he knows this. She is his beloved Mother, and he is her beloved Son. Mommy and her Baby love each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for how unorganized this is. It began as a poem and ended up as self-indulgent sadism erotica... Go figure~ I'll try to be a bit more professional next time! ♥ I also take requests, so do feel free to ask~


End file.
